


To the Victor Go the Spoils

by Arithanas



Category: The Borgias (2011)
Genre: Canon Gay Character, Canon Gay Relationship, First Time, M/M, Missing Scene, Power Bottom, Season/Series 03, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 20:49:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/815903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A recount from Pascal's POV of his first encounter with Micheletto.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To the Victor Go the Spoils

**Author's Note:**

> Written in reply to this prompt left in [The Borgias Kink Meme](http://borgiaskink.livejournal.com/):
> 
> Micheletto/Pascal, "I am not gentle" - "I remember"  
> A full version of their first sex scene based on afore mentioned quote plz?

Rufio was no pleased, but Pascal wouldn’t care less, his part was done with due diligence and utmost care. Pascal needed not to ask to figure the crafty Rufio was not attracted to male trade –which was a shame, such a sad fate for a pleasant body! —, and for this Catherina Sforza’s  go-between, it was impossible to understand Pascal could not cling to his target like a love-besotted damsel; that even if Pascal was spoils of war, this man would never abduct him, throw him over the hindquarters of his mount and take him to Rome to ravish him thoroughly and frequently.

That idea was utterly ansine.

That’s the reason why Pascal was roaming Rome streets like a common courtesan in search of an auspicious patron. Never stopping in a place for too long, trying to look aloof and careless; a vagrant in a city of thousand, praying for the happenstance of a fortunate meeting.

He stopped by to buy an apple, all this sashaying business made him both hungry and bored.

As he followed his mindless stroll he tried to spin his words into a speech that could say how grateful he was to the fates for seeing his target again, not! For seeing _him_ again. Pascal has to picture this Micheletto as if he was more than his job, as if that man was a good lay and Pascal was really pleased to see him; the first part was not burden, but Pascal is not entirely convinced that he could pull the second part entirely convincing.

While Pascal walked the tunnel, trying to form the lines he meant to put in his mouth, distracted by his own fantasy when a body tackled him on the side, a hard body in shirt sleeves, with the ripe aroma of some days under the sun; this man pinned Pascal against the brick arch, with a hand against his jaw.

“You!”  Pascal said, the relief of finding his target made him smile for a second, before the outrage of the assault almost show into his face.

“And you.”  He made short pause to let another passerby get out of hearing range. “You followed me”.

There was distrust in Micheletto’s expression; his eyes didn’t drift from Pascal’s face, a snarl bared his teeth, but was there a small sound in his voice? He sounded a bit like he was in wonder.

 Sometimes, a rebuttal was the best way to seduce and Pascal chose to put it in practice: “Surely, it is you who followed me.”

The strategy failed.

“To Rome?” Micheletto asked with a scowl.

It was better to gather his wits and came with an excellent explanation to make the dark cloud in his forehead disappear, along with that hand in his shirt.

“I have a friend, paid for my journey,” Pascal said, it was almost the truth even if Rufio was not his friend.

Micheletto let him go, and Pascal dared a step in his direction, raising his hand to caress the dirty shirt covered chest.

“You, gentle sir, have followed me.”

A mercurial move, an arm at his neck; the hand went to the jaw again with violence reserved to better use.

"I am not gentle" It sounded like Micheletto had taken umbrage on the attribute with which Pascal dubbed him; he was shaken and tremors ran from his hand to Pascal’s jaw.

Maybe it was the wrong choice of words, but that word summed up pretty well Pascal’s recollection.

 "I remember."

As if one hot-blooded man was allowed to forget the touch of this husky-voiced hellion.

*****

That early morning, the horse came treading the packed earth, the snorts were what roused Pascal from his straw mattress, one sad piece which only had been warmed with his body for what it seemed a long time. Pascal came forward, his frame barely covered with his dirty shirt, cold nipping at his bare ankles. That memory was clear right now.

“Prepare for the invasion,” the rider said with a lewd laugh, filled with double meaning.

Pascal heeded not the taunt, what it was to gain in showing his exasperation? A package was delivered in the rudest manner, and then the rider went away and Pascal was left with his instructions and new clothes, to prepare for the assault, to become a honey trap.

Pascal bathed himself in cold well water, as was instructed, but he made dispense with the soap and the oils that one of Leonardo's apprentices had given him. He was warned that Micheletto, born in Forlì and Roman dweller, liked his men rough, made for work; just like the wheelwright of Forlì, who was his lover at better times. And for the first time, Pascal wondered if he was the one for the job.

As another preparation, Pascal found a spot by the large bronze horse, amusing himself with the errands of people fleeing the city; mocking the false sense of security they search away from its walls. His target would be over a horse, and Pascal under the same beast of different material, the set was planned to the last detail: a man of gentle tastes, idling his time near a fountain or a sculpture, one who might cast a tender eye into another man and still have the possibility to pretend his sweet gazes were meant for someone, or something, else.

The sun made his way slowly across the sky dome, and Pascal waited the sound of the hooves on the streets. They came after midday, a group of mounted men surrounded his position and he tried to stand tall like Leonidas at Thermopylae.

“Welcome to Milan, milord!” Pascal greeted the invader, sticking to the part that was assigned to him by the hand of a mighty woman and the insidious threats of her shadow.

The man who led the cavalcade threw a tantrum, and went away with slumped shoulders, like he was carrying the weight of the world on them. Luckily, that was not the man who Pascal was charged to seduce; that would be a thankless task. Micheletto fit the description to the last lovely detail, and Pascal smiled, wondering how Rufio could describe this man to the last fine point and still be unmoved. It was the smile, Pascal was sure, because Micheletto approached, wariness in his eyes, shifting his weight over the saddle as if he was uncomfortable.

“Leonardo is gone, yes?” Micheletto said to him in his sultry voice; Pascal was yet to learn that was not a come-hither strategy, but rather an ingrained feature of Micheletto’s speech.

“I’m afraid so, milord…”

“Pity,” he pulled the reins and the horse went back as if he rider was getting ready to follow his master, “I was looking forward to observe his work.”

Pascal was anxious, this whole plot was about to unravel before his eyes like a badly wound yarn; he giggled to hide the fact he had no way to stop his prey. But even the devil abandons his favorites, because Micheletto turned around and saw him with a quizzical expression.

“What is it, boy?” A slight scowl adorned his face, and Pascal had to admit that Micheletto was a handsome man.

“Just the thought of Leonardo abandoning Milan encumbered with his entire miscellany,” Pascal was laughing now, grateful with the fate who gave him another chance. He had to sit at the edge of the pedestal, because his legs felt like wet rags. “Most of his unfinished projects are still in his house.”

“Could you give me the signs of his workshop?”

“I could do better.”

How come someone who had going to painstaking lengths to describe a person failed to point an interest for the arts? That would make Pascal's task a lot lighter, the set could be better planned... Pushing those concerns aside, Pascal congratulate himself because, by sheer luck, Micheletto was following him to Leonardo's abode, after he tied his horse to the knocker of an abandoned house. Pascal was glad he could drag Micheletto to a more secluded place, maybe that’s why this sodomite had not made his move yet: too many witnesses.

“I know Milan very well,” Pascal answered when interrogated about his knowledge about the place, pleased to have something to do while they climbed the stairs. “I know a boy who knows a boy whom Leonardo painted.”

Pascal felt he was almost bereft of resources, because the only thing that he had not said already was: ‘do me right now!’ Of course, Leonardo should be a clear signal of his willingness or at least what was his fancy; but when Pascal turned around, that face gave him no signal of comprehension.

“Do you understand me?”

The nod was brief, but there was neither a lingering gaze nor a knowing smile. Was Rufio’s information wrong?

They made small talk about Leonardo and _Il Saliano_ , Pascal toyed with the dagger, touched his waist, paraded in front of him and he even was weighing the possibility to shed his jerkin under the presence of a sudden flash of heat when Micheletto slapped his hand on Pascal's chest, asking ‘why’, the tone made clear that he was not asking for Leonardo's reasons, but Pascal choose to play coy.

“This’ why,” Pascal said once he revealed the clay model of the young boy.

Micheletto circled the model but he never even gave it a look, his eyes stared —at last— only at Pascal who reveled in the intensity of his gaze. Pascal hand was taken, observed in detail until the fingers intertwined almost absent though and the back of the hand was kissed with large amounts of precautions that made Pascal smile, Micheletto’s paranoia seemed charming, endearing and a good sign because a man who was this careful must be plagued by the need. Pascal’s sacrifice should be mercifully short.

Pascal was manhandled around a bit, not that it was not completely unpleasant; a rough hand caught him beneath the arm, while a delicate touch pulled aside his curls before his neck became the canvas for some love bites. It was good, manly touch was a commodity that Pascal had had not for a long time. The hand on his neck progressed down on Pascal's back, touching him softly, barely, with the knuckles; shifty hips rubbed his backside but this new clothes scarcely let him feel the touch of aroused male flesh, and Pascal would have liked to try to guess against what caliber of arms he would have to measure his ability. Pascal prayed to St. Sebastian so that the precautions that had been taken before were sufficient to withstand the assault; and if they were not, to endure the shafting gracefully.

The hand that was holding him lifted the skirt and ventured to touch under the jerkin, Micheletto mouth let out an exclamation, similar to what you might hear of a thirsty man after the first sip of water; his deft fingers untied the laces of Pascal’s hose and groped the contents of the codpiece, grunting approvingly at the girth and sturdiness.

“There!” Micheletto barked, pushing a dazed Pascal toward the big hassock.

Pascal stumbled and tried to make some sense of that conduct, not knowing if he must bend over the object or sit on it; but Micheletto was so busy taking off his coarse wool hose to mind his confusion.

“Get on the bench,” Micheletto ordered throwing the jerkin to the floor, his soft suede boots were a few steps beyond. Pascal was unaware of when he had taken them off. “On your back!”

Pascal was resigned to the idea of holding his thighs for a while, and his hands began to loosen the bonds of jerkin when Micheletto’s rough hand spun him around and pushed him to the padded surface of the bed of Leonardo.

“Waste not the little time we have!” Micheletto, covered only in his shirt, groaned as he lifted the skirt and sat astride over Pascal’s hips.

Before Pascal could raise a complaint, Micheletto's hungry mouth stole a kiss of his lips, his was a bold tongue, almost rude the one that filled his mouth, prodigal in caresses, forward in its purpose. It almost made him forget the hand between them that rummaged his shames with careless abandon.

“Milord!” Pascal tried to protest when Micheletto finished arranging matters at his leisure.

“Should I stop?”

His features were hard, but the quiet concern of a lover was behind those eyes. A silent plea was in his stance, in his stillness, to go forever unvoiced.

“No, milord,” Pascal wanted to carry on with the sweet sin, not for Rufio or his menaces, but for this man who was willing to commit it. “Pray, be more slow-paced!”

Micheletto nodded and his left hand gave a hint of caress to Pascal's face. His right hand was busy doing something to the lamp that hanged from its support by the bed; later, he carried his hand behind to give more than a hint of a caress to Pascal's turgid rod that spring and thrilled at the attention.

“Slow…”

The hoarse word was accompanied by a wonderful pressure and strange warmth. Pascal groaned at the novel sensation, his hands darted up to caress Micheletto’s thighs, as if looking for a confirmation of this wondrous reality. Taut cords of muscle beneath his fingers came to life when Micheletto slid down to glide another inch inside his body. Pascal moaned.

“Slow, yes?” Micheletto echoed, bringing his face close to Pascal to demand another kiss.

“Oh, yes!” Pascal agreed fighting against the urge to bury himself into Micheletto.

The soft rocking motion of Micheletto's hips was an exquisite torture, the insistent kneading of Micheletto's insides turned Pascal into a quivering mess, the intense sensation was nothing he felt when he played the catamite. Languidly, unhurriedly, gently, the man on his lap took the full length, Pascal only had eyes for that deeply collected face, that was the face of a man committed to the task; that face said to Pascal that he had no to worry to add his caresses, for the sensation was overwhelming inside. Nonetheless, Pascal reached for the rump, to grasp those powerful muscles, to ensure he was still part of the movement that made that awe-inspiring expression in that hard and dangerous man.

Micheletto shifted his weight back; his hands seek Pascal's thighs for support while the onrush of his hips picked up tempo and strength. There was no doubt that Micheletto was riding for his pleasure; The powerful yet measured thrusts of his haunches provoked a seesaw on the taut fabric of his shirt, his innards were milking Pascal's side slowly, with every one of the spine-tingling dashes of his compact hind end.

Pascal didn't need to see the cocked rod, his whole being was mesmerized by the way Micheletto’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he groaned in pleasure. The building pressure in his gut was bound to make him spill his vital liquor far too soon...

That afternoon on Milan, there was no way to know for sure, which was victor and which was the spoil.

*****

Pascal had his eyes unfocused, wandering into the realm of the things that were and were meant to be no more, he was still feeling the weight on his hips when his leather satchel hit him squarely in the chest; the lapel open, its contents had been review and deemed not harmful.

“Follow.”

The ordeal has been overtaken; Pascal came along, to the devil's lair.


End file.
